


Kenshi: Penitent

by Stringbones



Series: Short Kenshi Stories [1]
Category: Kenshi (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Fantastic Racism, Horror, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29715930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stringbones/pseuds/Stringbones
Summary: A short piece about what happens when a Paladin fails.
Series: Short Kenshi Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183883
Kudos: 2





	Kenshi: Penitent

The crimson-clad Inquisitor stands before you, staring into your eyes. "For your crimes and heresy one like you would be sentenced to Rebirth, but not this time." You let out a breath long held within yourself. No Rebirth. "For your previous outstanding service as a Paladin, you have been granted the rank of Penitent Knight." Your heart fills with fire, you could not hope for more. "You will spend your remaining days fighting alone in the far reaches of Okran's Light, ever pushing forward it's boundaries. You will face horrible monstrosities birthed from Narko herself. You will suffer. You will redeem yourself. All records of heresy will be purged from your line, and your name will find itself among Seta's." You kneel in front of him, zealous and excited. "I will do my duty, Inquisitor, to you, the Phoenix, and to Okran. Death to the Skeleton and the Horned Beast" He turns around, retrieving a heavy plate helmet adorned with locks and a hole for the mouth, as well as a curved hacker blade, not dissimilar to a licking flame. It shines with beauty only surpassed by the blade of the Phoenix himself. The Inquisitor places the helm upon your head and turns the key, it will never come off of your head. He then places your new weapon into your outstretched hands. "Take this flamberge. Go westwards, bring ruination to the undead that ravage our border. Strike hard into their heart. Your duty ends when there are none left." You stand tall and proud now, your faith undying. "Thy will be done."

You step out of the gates of Stack and begin your march towards the Fog. A starving Greenlander approaches you, covered in linen cloth to protect him from the dust. His left arm completely covered. "Please, sir Paladin. Bandits stole my food..." You retrieve a ration pack from your bag, and place it into his right hand. "Seek shelter in Stack. It is close, to the south west." He excitedly grabs your hand with both of his, revealing that his left is one of metal. He leans forward to kiss your hand but your blade is faster than his eyes. His head drops to the sand with a plop, followed by the wet thump of his body. You wordlessly continue marching on to the cursed west. The air begins to turn a sickly grey and blue, the fog beginning to close in. A horned beast lunges at you from the fog. You quickly counter it and enter a defensive stance well enough that its four companions can not land their blows. All five wield rusted planks or fragment axes, crude but effective weapons. "Look here!" Bellows their evident leader, a female taller than an elder Garru. "A Paladin came out to play in the Fog!" The group laughs heartily, to your ears like a blade to a heart. "Not a Paladin, not anymore." You slice horizontally at the closest Shek, a younger male. He looks as if he had never seen battle. It might have been true, but his short life would end regardless as your flamberge removes his waist from his torso. Using the momentum of your swing, you bring your blade further. In but a second, three lives are extinguished and a purple blood rain begins to fall around you.

Now only one Shek remained, the leader. She cracks a smile. Unlike the others she is well equipped, her blade shining in the low light of the valley. "Perhaps this will be a worthy death for one of us after all!" She brings her plank above her head. "Perhaps..." You bring your hacker in an upswing, clashing against her blade in the air. Your wrists almost buckle, but you continue from form to form. One, two, three, four, five times do the massive weapons clash. Left, right, up, down, left, and a strike. Her sword falls to the ground while yours rests in her gut. "Hah... I chipped your blade..." She's right, a small chip has formed on the base of the flamberge. You push your hacker horizontally, letting it cut her heart. You pull the weapon out of her body and breath for but a moment. Your break is quickly interrupted by shrieks no human or machine could ever make. Out from the fog rushes your quarries, a prince and over two dozen workers. You brace your sword as they approach. Each time a worker gets near one of your previous foe's body they snatch it up and return to the fog. You lunge forward, bringing your flamberge through the first opponent cleanly. The strike ends in a pose one would see in a painting, with a magnificent arc of white blood splattering the other Fogmen.

The horde continues its assault, but their bone clubs can't block your fine steel. Once more you enter that combat loop. Left, right, up, down, left, right, up, down. More and more keep appearing from the fog. You almost lose count after forty. Your heart goes ablaze with zealous fire when you separate the prince's head from his shoulders. Two, no, three more princes come from the fog. Left, right, up, down, fifty, sixty, seventy. Once the tide begins to stop, it's as if the smell of their kin's blood attracts more of the Deadhive. Left, right, up, down, eighty, ninety, one hundred. Your muscles burn as much as your faith. Left, right, up, down, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred. You scream in agony and sanctified rage as your blade is stained milky white with Hive blood. Left, right, up, down, one thousand. Eventually the tide stops, you fall to your knees upon a mountain of bodies. You let out a primal shout that would frighten the strongest Hundred Guardian.

Out of the shadows _it_ appears. A hulking beast, as tall as two men. It's the biggest Hive Soldier you've ever seen. It wields a flamberge, much like your own. A mockery of your faith, that a horrid animal like this would wield it. Surely the blade is stolen from another Penitent, taken as a mocking trophy, or simply a better weapon. You enter combat stance once more, your breaths heavy and ragged. The beast smiles with a horrible maw of teeth numbered in the hundreds. Little daggers ready to feast. Your heart sinks for a moment. Is it conscious enough to feel emotions? You roar with incredible ferocity matched only by the monster. Both of you lunge at one another. Hacker strikes hacker, blue eyes meet pale white. The beast makes a horrible noise you could almost mistake for laughter as it receives a blow to its leg. It doesn't even flinch, and your blade cuts barely the skin. If this is your end, so be it, better to die to a truly superior opponent than old age. Left, right, up, down, left, right, up, down. It's not enough that you land over a dozen blows, the goliath is unphased. The Soldier lands a tremendous blow on your blade, knocking it to the ground. It punches you, knocking you down too. It looks at you, but instead of grabbing you right away it bends over. The Fogman pulls your blade out of the ground and marches towards you. It braces it’s own blade in a stabbing motion, and it's horrible grin is the last thing you see.

Now there are new reports by survivors of the fog. Men and women impaled upon their own weapons adorning the Fogland Deathyards. Even more disturbing are the reports of an enormous Fogman with a thousand teeth, wielding a Penitent's flamberge with a single chip at the base of the blade.


End file.
